


The birthday mathom

by Gilli_ann



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Goodbyes, Melancholy, POV Third Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-19 20:52:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10647849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gilli_ann/pseuds/Gilli_ann
Summary: Frodo leaving the Shire for the last time, as seen through the innocent eyes of some of those he helped save.





	The birthday mathom

**Author's Note:**

> The characters and places belong to the Tolkien Estate. I intend no copyright infringement and make no profit from this.

The children are squealing with laughter, on their knees by the roadside, playing a game involving plum stones and circles in the dry road dirt. The little lasses’ homespun pinafores are smudged with grass stains, and simple hair ribbons cling precariously to their disarrayed curls. The lads’ breeches look the worse for wear, stained with mud, and some even torn at the knees. 

Another fine and mild autumn day, filled with chores around the farm and with playing in the fields and by the brook, will soon be at an end. 

The faint sound of approaching hoofs set them all running from their roadside game as fast as they can, their bare feet pounding. The first to reach the gate will be the one to open and close it for the traveler, earning the right to the gate penny that custom demands. 

A light-footed little lad gets there first, with the others in a noisily whooping pack hot on his heels. He’s near bursting with pride at having outrun them all. Reaching up on tip-toe he unhooks the light wooden gate, and swings it wide open. It’s been designed to keep cattle and sheep from straying further a-field, not to keep ruffians or enemies out. For there are no ruffians or enemies to keep out here.

The riders, there are two of them, pass through at a slow pace in the slanting low sunlight, their ponies’ hoofs clip-clopping pleasantly on the narrow uneven road. They both smile warmly at the eager and happy children, and once through the gate, the foremost rider halts his pony and pulls forth a leather pouch from under his long grey cloak. He lets a copper penny drop into the little boy’s outstretched dirt-smudged hand.

“Thank you. This is for your effort.” His voice is soft and pleasant, but although he smiles, his eyes seem terribly sad. 

The boy looks at him with curiosity. The rider looks very pale and thin compared to other hobbits, and perhaps especially so compared to his cheerful-looking stout companion. He looks as if he’s been ill for a long time, like grandma was, last year. The lad notices that the rider’s hands seem to shake a little when tying the strings of the pouch in order to return it to its proper place under his cloak.

Not many hobbits use this gate, for the farm’s location is isolated, deep in the Green Hills. It's far between the farms here, and few travelers pass through of a week, even if the road does eventually lead to Bucklebury Ferry. 

The children are all the more eager to greet those that do pass by, and to find out what their business may be. But somehow, these two travelers seem surrounded by a silence and a distance that make the children keep their inquisitiveness in check.

The rider has finished tying the strings, but as he moves to put the pouch away, it accidentally slips from his pale, slim hand. The other hobbit makes a move to get off his pony and retrieve the pouch, but the little boy is quicker. He picks it up and holds it out. 

It’s not all that heavy, it’s obviously not full; – it probably does not contain many more coins. But perhaps they are silver coins, since the hobbit looks rich. A beautiful brooch clasps his cloak at his throat, and the cloth of his breeches is a soft slightly shimmering fabric, the likes of which the children have rarely seen. It’s completely clean, too, which impresses them mightily. 

The rider looks down at the little boy’s upturned, earnest, sun-freckled and dirt-smudged face, crowned with unruly copper-brown curls. A soft sigh escapes him. He looks towards the farm up the hill. 

“Is that where you live?”

The little boy squirms, suddenly self-conscious and shy, uncertain how to address such a fine and sad gentle-hobbit. One dirty finger steals into his mouth for comfort, as he looks pleadingly towards his siblings. 

“Yes sir, it’s Hill Farm – that’s where we all live, sir. My name is Honeysuckle, sir,” the oldest girl curtsies, sparing her little brother the difficult and confusing task of conversing with gentry.

The rider nods and looks back up towards the small farmstead. It’s not a rich place, nor a large one, but its fields are golden in the setting sun, and smoke wafting from the pipe heralds the preparation of the evening meal. A dog in the yard gives a single sharp bark and falls silent again, as if surprised at the sound it made. The yellowing leaves of the trees along the roadside rustle with the early evening breeze stealing through.

The gentle-hobbit sighs softly once more, and passes his hand tiredly over his eyes, before turning back towards the children and the boy holding out his pouch. 

“I shall not really need that anymore, and imagine - it is my birthday today. I should have had a fine party and given out many gifts, and I’ve somehow missed doing all of that!” 

He smiles and winks, taking in their surprised looks. “Keep the pouch, and use what’s in it to celebrate my birthday for me, will you promise me that? It is my birthday mathom to you all. But be sure to share it justly!”

The little boy gapes. He nods emphatically, though, and presses the pouch firmly to his chest, awed by such sudden unexpected fortune landing in his lap. Visions of striped candy canes, sweet golden caramels and pink spun sugar, yes, even those enticing wooden toys at the market, dance merrily through his mind. 

The generous stranger nudges his pony lightly with his feet, and it starts moving down the road. The other rider smiles at the children, wishing them good evening in a kindly voice, and also rides on. 

Once more it is Honey who speaks up, anxious to prove that they do know how to behave like proper, respectable hobbits, even when they are caught completely unawares with surprise birthday celebrations. 

“Thank you, kind sir, and a very happy birthday to you!” she calls out. 

The others follow suit, their high-pitched voices carrying clearly down the road. “Happy birthday sir, and thank you! Happy biiiiirthdaaay!” 

The gentle-hobbit turns and lifts his hand, waving briefly in thank you and goodbye. His pony trots on.

Closing the gate behind the travellers, the children turn their eyes to the unexpected gift. The little boy opens the pouch and lets the content drop into his open palm. 

A couple of coppers, a few silvers, and five large, shining coins seemingly made of bright light trapped in metal. Five large gold coins, catching the last rays of the sun. Not a one of the children has ever seen such a treasure before. They stand overwhelmed, hardly believing their eyes, and then turn as one to look down the road.

“I think Strider is tired, even if Bill isn’t. We should stop soon and find a place to rest and eat. We can ride on once the stars are out,” the generous hobbit’s pleasant voice drifts softly back up the road, whispering towards them. 

The speaker and his companion are already difficult to see, as if they have merged with the darkness under the trees along the road. They are barely visible as soft shimmering shadows among other shadows, swiftly disappearing from view. Their ponies’ soft clip-clops can still be heard for a little while, but very soon all sight and sound of the travelers have faded completely, and the road lies quiet and empty. 

Only the pouch remains, and its golden promise of birthday sweets and exciting toys, new frocks, expensive foodstuff from the market, all sorts of useful and delightful things for the whole family and the farm. 

Honey speaks up in amazement, as her little brother carefully puts the coins back in the pouch. “Oh! He’s given us the bestest birthday gift ever! I feel like we can buy… like we can buy the whole Shire!” she exclaims. 

They do not forget the very kind, very sad traveler, and they remember his birthday in the following years, though they never see him again. 

One day they may even learn who he was, and hear more about his deeds, and understand that he did, indeed, gift them with the Shire.


End file.
